The Men Who Would Be King
by Non Timebo Malo
Summary: When Castiel awakens in a dark London alley, he remembers nothing about the man he once was. Only in staring into the dark eyes of a man who identifies himself as Jim Moriarty does Castiel find comfort- and a new life as a man named Sebastian Moran.
1. A Man With No Name

**Summary: When Castiel awakens in a darkened London alleyway, he remembers nothing about the man he used to be. It is only in staring into the dark eyes of a man who identifies himself as Jim Moriarty that Castiel finds comfort- and a new life as a man named Sebastian Moran.**

**Supernatural / Sherlock crossover. **Amnesia!Cas meets In-Need-of-an-Assitant!Jim.****

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><p><strong><em><span>The Men Who Would Be King<span>_**

**__**_Chapter One: A Man With No Name_

When Castiel woke up, he had no idea where he was, not really. He could feel his entire body burning, feeling as though it was bursting at the seams, being licked by white-hot fire. He could see scarlet red stains all over his white tee shirt, and he could feel something warm soaking into his dark dress pants. Running a hand upward through his mussed hair, he realized that his head hurt, really quite badly. But that was the extent of his self-awareness.

Expanding his focus, branching out from considering only his own body, Castiel began to take in the details of the world around him. His back was pressed against a cold, hard brick wall, and another, nearly identical wall stood parallel to it. A deep blue dumpster was tucked into a corner, and, beyond it, there was a chain link fence. The sky above was dark; it had already given in to nightfall. The air was chilled, but not cold, just brisk.

As Castiel blinked rapidly, he began to suspect the presence of someone watching him. Turning to his left slightly, _painfully,_ his deep blue eyes met with a far darker gaze.

"Good morning, darling" the man to whom the eyes belonged drawled, "Welcome back to the world of the living. What might your appellation be?"

Castiel tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. "My uh… what?" he asked, completely and utterly confounded.

"Your name," the man demanded in a huskier, more commanding tone, "What is your name?"

Oh, his name. His name? Castiel's brow furrowed in confusion; he honestly could not for the life of him remember. "My name is," he began, then said the first thing that came to mind, "Sebastian." Yeah, that would work. He had always liked that name.

"Sebastian," the other man trilled playfully, his voice seeming to be testing out every rise and fall of the name. Finally, he nodded, a smirk stealing his expression and slightly lightening his dark eyes. "Jim Moriarty. Pleasure, I'm sure."

Extending his hand to connect with Jim's in a firm handshake, the freshly-named Sebastian attempted a smile. However, the slight pull at the corners of his mouth didn't last long, not when accompanied by the sharp, shooting pain that ran through his head.

Jim's forehead creased. "Got a bit of a headache, do you?" When Castiel nodded, Jim rose from his squatting position, yanking the other man up with him. "Well, you certainly look like a bloody wreck. Come now, let's clean you up."

The sudden change in altitude only worsened Castiel's plight, but he followed along after Jim. He wasn't sure that this was a good idea, simply being towed along in this state behind a complete stranger, but he hadn't the energy to fight it. So he just followed.

Jim didn't say a word until the two men reached the door to a flat in the center of a town Castiel vaguely conjectured to be London. After shoving a key into the door and throwing it open, Jim flicked on a light and motioned for Castiel to enter.

"Home sweet home," he said, pulling Castiel toward a small chair in the living room. "Sit. Wait."

With that, Jim disappeared down a narrow hallway, returning a few minutes later holding two bottles, a sewing needle, and a spool of thread. Holding one of the bottles out toward Castiel, the one that read _Johnnie_ _Walker Blue Label_, Jim murmured, "You may be needing this," and, without another word, pulled the hemline of Castiel's white tee shirt up and over his head.

The night passed in a blur of pain and whiskey. Somewhere between Jim's pouring of hydrogen peroxide into Castiel's wounds and his apparent medical licensure to stitch significantly deep lesions, Castiel came to find out that he quite liked whiskey, and he did _not _like sewing needles. He also learned that too much whiskey sent him directly into a blur of dreamless sleep.

Sun was pouring through the windows of Jim Moriarty's London flat when Castiel awoke. Blinking sleepily, Castiel again found himself staring into endlessly deep, dark eyes, the kind of eyes that signified a man lingering somewhere quite near to the edge of insanity. A smile stole Jim's features when Castiel groaned lightly, the pain hitting him once more like a bad dream.

"Morning, Seb," Jim greeted him, "You don't mind if I call you, Seb, do you?" But the question was hypothetical, never actually meant to receive an answer. No matter what Castiel had said just then, something told him Jim would call him whatever he damn well pleased. "Tell me about yourself."

Straining against the bright sunlight streaming through the window, Castiel tried to dig into his memory bank, but he couldn't remember a single thing. With a sigh, he decided to wing it; after all, improvising had worked out just fine the night before. "My name is Sebastian Moran," he began, wincing at the sound of his own voice, "And I was a soldier. For years, I fought a war I could never really win, a war _nobody _could ever win. I fought in deserts, forests, frozen fields, all the corners of Creation no mortal had ever before dared to venture into. I was a leader, and I had friends, but it all became too much- I was tired. So I made a poor decision. I endangered some people I cared deeply about, and I ended up broken down and alone. Then you found me." It sounded believable to him anyway.

"Uh-huh," Jim responded, and Castiel could see a wheel beginning to turn in the other man's mind. Moriarty was interested, that much was written all over his face. "I take it you can shoot a gun, yes?"

"Undoubtedly," Castiel agreed, wondering if he'd ever actually held a gun before.

"Well then," Jim said with a sly smirk that reminded Castiel of something reptilian, "I have a proposition for you, a job opportunity we'll call it."

Castiel nodded, waiting for Jim to continue.

"You'll live here with me, and you'll do what I tell you. In return for your unwavering loyalties, I can give you the world, but, turn your back on me, and I can take that world away with a snap of my fingers."

Castiel extended his hand to shake on it. Why the hell not, right? He was completely and utterly alone, he hadn't the slightest inkling of his true identity, and here this man was offering him a home, sustenance, and, possibly, the world. If that wasn't a good deal, then Castiel didn't know what was.

Jim smirked once again, tugging at the sleeve of his Westwood suit coat, making it lie flat. "Pleasure to do business with you, Seb."

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><p><strong>So I've not the slightest idea where that came from... But there it is nonetheless. I guess my Sherlock feelings met and befriended my Supernatural feelings at some point. Great. Because they weren't strong enough on their own... <em>Just what I needed.<em>**

**The thought of Castiel with amnesia just drives me insane, and I think that may be what added fuel to this fire. That coupled with the desire to know more about Sebastian Moran. So. Yeah. Juxtaposition. **

**Plus, imagine them together? It'd be like Cas interacting with an intensified Crowley. Castiel all stoic and powerful and righteous, and Jim, all brilliantly mad and unpredictably changeable. Things I wouldn't mind seeing. Oh, and Cas staring intently down the scope of a sniper rifle. That is all.**

**It's late-ish. I'm rambling. I should sssssss-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h now. **

**Anyway, opinions would, of course, be ever so adored. REVIEW!**

**_"In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is King, and honey, you should see me in a crown."_ **


	2. The Thrill of the Hunt

_**Chapter Two: The Thrill of the Hunt**_

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><p>"It's not that hard," Castiel murmured into the cell phone Jim had just recently purchased for him, yanking a zipper closed and toting a duffle bag over his shoulder.<p>

As his footsteps clanked against an iron fire escape, he was only vaguely aware of Jim's voice on the other end of the line. Why did the man make such a big deal of everything he did anyway? It was just pulling a trigger; his senses were acute, more sensitive than those of average humans; his aim was good, spot-on actually, almost otherworldly; and, truly, he was rather adept at hiding, at going unnoticed.

Evidently, if the past months were a worthwhile account, he could, indeed, shoot a gun.

"Seb," Jim was nearly yelling now, excitement stirring his voice into a higher zone than that in which it normally sat, "I _watched_ that bullet fly out of bloody nowhere; the story's already on the news. Not a single suspect, not even a lead to follow."

"As usual," he answered, fumbling impatiently with the phone, "Listen, I'll be home within the hour." And with that, the line went dead, undoubtedly leaving Jim staring at his phone with that sly little smirk on his face, the one that always played upon his lips after a job was finished perfectly. And Castiel had him used to perfection- he never did settle for anything less.

Walking down a crowded London street, the notes of some song Jim played endlessly fell from Castiel's lips in a low whistle. Nobody bothered to pay him a second look; they were all so busy scurrying about in a panic, ants who just watched their queen being squashed right within her nest. The static-laced sound of radios buzzed around him, a chorus of voices all proclaiming but one single story: the death of a figurehead, a Russian diplomat come to speak to the Queen, and the bullet that flew through his head within the walls of Buckingham, the Queen sitting but a few meters away. Shouldn't have worn that Armani tie; it had been the only one made, and if James Moriarty couldn't have it, then _no one _could. Shame it was so mottled by blood stains these days.

How had a gunman breached the palace walls, they all wondered. But no gunman did breach the walls- he didn't need to, he had the range to shoot from elsewhere, to let a bullet sail through a window and slice into the Russian just so. Why were there no marks on the bullet, none of the customary 'fingerprints' left by the barrel of a gun, they mused. Because a more intelligent marksman had loaded the bullet one-thousandth of a size too small for the gun, leaving it unscathed, unmarred by the chamber's walls upon release. How did the gunman get away, where might he have gone, and just _who_ was this mystery man with the incredible shot, this shadow haunting London, making everyone frantic, making them flee, disperse, _panic._

Castiel smiled- it was all just the thrill of the game, the excitement of the hunt.

The flat was quiet was Castiel walked in, the sound of a duffle containing the most wanted gun in London echoing sharply against the walls. Following the faint glow of the television set, Castiel came to find Jim in the bedroom, shrugging on a fresh suit coat.

"You," the man smiled as he watched Castiel walk in, his eyes going one shade the darker, pupils dilating, expression impressed and nothing short of aroused by the whole sequence of events, "are incredible. We're going out for dinner, my treat. Get changed. Wear the Westwood I bought you while you were gone." Motioning toward a tapered, pure black suit which had been set carefully across the bed, Jim's smile grew, finally spreading to his eyes.

Castiel was quick to get changed, not even bothering to button the jacket as he walked into the living room with a quiet, "Ready."

"Oh, button your coat, darling," Jim trilled, switching off the television set, which had been ablaze with news reports of a phantom sniper. The man's footsteps were light and airy as he almost bounced across the room, his fingers finding the buttonholes of Castiel's suit and pulling them shut.

When Castiel let out an annoyed little sigh, he knew Jim heard every word he didn't say, _Do I have to wear this? So bloody uncomfortable, why can't I just wear my own clothes? _

Jim smirked, his face close to Castiel's, "Stop complaining, Seb, I want to take you somewhere _nice."_

And as Jim said, so it would be. As Castiel followed the shorter man into a restaurant on the outskirts of London a fraction of an hour later, his eyes widened, taking in the glimmer of every dimly lit, crystal-and-diamond-encrusted chandelier, their light falling to a floor of polished black wood, bouncing back up to illuminate the gold cloths atop scattered tables with plush, ridiculously modern, ridiculously expensive-looking chairs standing by. _Not necessary,_ he thought, suddenly folding his arms around himself, tugging his suit closer as though he were so incredibly out of place.

The moment the hostess- a girl with long, pin-straight platinum hair- saw Jim, her expression was set ablaze. Jim waved, the movement dripping with notes of flirtation as the girl ushered them past the throngs of clientele awaiting seats, bringing them to a corner table pressed against a window affording them quite the view of the London skyline, orange with the tint of sunset. The flame of a single candle flickered in the middle of the table, perfectly matching the fiery sky. "Here you are," the girl said, pulling out Jim's chair for him to sit, paying Castiel absolutely no attention, "I'll be sure your waiter doesn't keep you waiting." As the blonde trounced away, she tossed Jim a winning smile over her shoulder.

"Who was _that?_" Castiel demanded, surprised by the notes of jealousy he detected in his own voice. Since when was he jealous of all the pretty girls who seemed so chummy with James Moriarty?

Jim laughed, the sound rich and deep, resonating loudly enough to call the attention of the people at the surrounding tables. "Nobody you need to worry about," was his curt, simple answer, his eyes dancing in the candlelight as he cast a shaded glance toward Castiel. "There is _nobody_ in London, nobody _alive_ at all, or _dead_ for that matter, whom you have to worry about, Sebastian."

Castiel could tell Jim meant it; it was one of those rare, sincere moments when his guard fell and he became someone new entirely. In that moment, no longer was he _Moriarty_; he was just _Jim._ And Castiel liked just Jim.

It was over entrees that the conversation became serious, departing from the celebratory, playful, almost _flirty_ tone it had carried previously. "Sebastian," Jim began, twirling his fork about in a plate still full of pasta, pasta which had been only pushed around for at least a full ten minutes, "Tomorrow's the day. This is it."

No further clarification was needed. Castiel's heart quickened, his senses went on overdrive, his teeth clamped down around his bottom lip. For months, Jim had been talking about nobody but the one whom many in London referred to as 'the good detective'- only, to Castiel, the implications of that man, the gravity he seemed to hold in Jim's mind, seemed anything but _good_. And now, Castiel knew without asking, without being told, what '_the day'_ meant. It was the day when Jim's plan would begin, when the fall would begin, when the greatest game would be afoot. It was the day Jim planned to take down Sherlock Holmes, forcing the detective to fall. In one last blaze of glory, Sherlock would burn out like a star exploding; he'd grow brighter than ever before, then fall into darkness more profound than he'd ever seen the likes of.

Jim had reassured Castiel time and again that he'd be okay, that everything would be okay, that only Sherlock would plummet into those endless depths, that Jim would come home happy and healthy and successful, that they'd have to celebrate again that very night.

But truly, Castiel couldn't help the sinking feeling in his stomach. He couldn't help the ice-cold anxiety that gripped his insides relentlessly, hopelessly tightly. He couldn't help but thinking that Jim's words weren't his at all. They were _Moriarty's_ words, and, more often than not, _Moriarty's_ words turned out, to Castiel, to be utter and complete _bullshit_, nothing more than the ineffable twaddle of a man sleeping, no more believable than a drunken promise. That was _Moriarty_ talking, _Moriarty_ taking hold, and _Jim_ was just left in his wake, pulled along with the plan of a madman, of the madman lingering inside of himself.

Swallowing hard, averting his gaze out over the setting sun, Castiel only managed to mouth the words he somehow felt he'd heard before, "So, maybe it's our last night on earth…"

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><p><strong>Wooh sorry for the lull between chapters. Hope you all enjoyed this! <strong>


	3. To Fall, To Fly

_Chapter Three: To Fall, To Fly_

"Answer the phone," Castiel murmured, his heartbeat quickening to match the speed of his footfalls against the concrete of the sidewalk, "Come on Jim, just pick up… _Pick up."_

"Hello, you've reached the voice mailbox of James Moriarty. I'm undoubtedly busy at the moment, but do tell me your name, the nature of your problem, and a convenient number at which I can reach you should I find your message interesting enough to pursue. Don't bother calling this number back; if I find you a worthwhile specimen, I will surely call you at my earliest convenience."

Castiel had never heard Jim's voicemail pick up before, not on his business phone. He'd never had occasion; previously, Castiel had always called Jim's personal phone, and Jim had _always_ picked up at the sight of his right-hand sniper's name on the display. But not today. He didn't pick up the personal number, and now, he didn't pick up the business number either. Something about it further disconcerted Castiel. Perhaps it was the icy chill to Jim's voice, perhaps it was the utter and complete disinterest he found there, or perhaps it was simply the fact that Jim hadn't answered his call at all.

"Breathe," he growled, the word directed only toward himself as he snapped his cell phone shut without bothering to leave a message. Surely, Jim was just busy. This was an important day for him. Of course he was just handling the aftershocks of Sherlock's jump. He was probably just fine, standing atop the roof wearing a smile, maybe even making his way down the stairs by now or safely preparing himself to pose as a very scared Richard Brook and answer the inevitable questions of countless reporters who would want to know every detail of the last moments of the life and times of one Sherlock Holmes. Right?

When Castiel reached the corner occupied by St. Bartholomew's Hospital- and found an empty sidewalk to assure him he wasn't too late- he spent only a moment deciding where to go next. He'd been told to find a position in the building across the street which offered both an obstructed view and an unobstructed _shot_ at the rooftop. He was quite used to following Jim's orders, and his unwavering loyalty quickly won over the uneasiness bubbling up inside of him. Why was he getting so worried about Jim anyway?

Footsteps creaked and echoed against the stairs as Castiel made his way to his window of choice. His fingers fumbled at the zipper of his duffel bag as he bent to sit on the stairs, his eyes not yet daring to steal a peak across the street.

The scope was set, the gun was loaded, and Castiel was staring past it in only minutes. Jim and Sherlock were standing close together, hands extended, locked in a handshake Jim must've intended to be his great goodbye to the greatest game of his life. The man's eyes looked dark, at least a few shades the darker than they usually were, even from afar. His mouth twisted and snarled into mischievous, almost demonic grins; his head swayed in that reptilian fashion Castiel considered to be trademark of Jim. The detective's coat blew and billowed in the wind, whipping at his feat in the strange, haunting wind which had picked up. The sky seemed grey; Castiel supposed that was rather normal for London, although it had been blue earlier. The storm blowing in seemed almost metaphysical, almost as if it existed only in the minds of those who knew exactly what was going on.

"Well," Castiel whispered, his finger playing at the trigger, "Nature seems to sense the impending death of a _great_ man." Sherlock, he meant, of course. An unnatural chuckle surfaced from the very deepest parts of his throat, low and rough and grumbled, absolutely and completely devoid of any kind of humour.

It was a few minutes before anything out of the ordinary struck Castiel. First, it was the slight glint of metal poking forth from Jim's pocket. Then it was his eyes- something in them changed, something Castiel could sense more than he could actually see. They looked somehow weary, suddenly taken by a strange mixture of annoyance and insouciance, which, in turn, gave to one single glimmer of necessity, of pure, unadulterated determination. That was when Castiel knew, _really_ knew. That was when he finally gave name to the suspicion he'd been harbouring for weeks. Jim was willing to do anything, live or die, for better or for worse, just to win this game of his. He was prepared to do _anything._

And with that, Castiel was on his feet. He let his rifle fall to the stairs then tumble downward, the freshly polished metal and intricately carved wood clanking loudly against the rickety floor below. In that moment, though, Castiel hardly cared if it got nicked, scraped, _broken._ For once, it was the least of his worries. With one last glance out the window, he saw the glint of _his_ gun in Jim's hand, finding its way into the man's mouth. _His _gun, the very first gun Jim _gave_ him. _His._

It was a strange feeling, racing against time. Castiel's senses slowed down just so much as they sharpened; his heartbeat and breathing raced to superhuman speeds; his feet moved more quickly than anyone ever should have held the capability for. Moments trickled past, too many flying by in far too little time as Castiel's world blurred and shifted, as bright, blindingly bright light clouded his vision and white noise rang in his ears, broken only by the unmistakable metallic clink of a bullet flying through a chamber as a trigger was pulled, the ear-shattering thwack of the selfsame bullet entering live flesh. Castiel knew. But still he didn't stop.

As he surfaced on the St. Bart's rooftop, Castiel couldn't remember having climbed any stairs to get there. He couldn't remember much of anything but the feeling of flying, of his heart leaping into his throat, of his stomach knotting and twisting as though with altitude. His eyes just about caught the dark tails of a coat falling over the side of the rooftop, but he didn't hear a body hit the ground. He only heard himself, heard the choked sob rising from his throat as his azure eyes followed a crimson river trailing along the rooftop, growing thicker and thicker as it neared its source.

_ "Jim."_

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><p><em><em>**Er. Sorry. I did it again, took forever to update. **

**Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and more will come! **

**Now, I've got a question to pose for all of you who follow this story. Would you guys like to see Sam and Dean enter stage left, or would you prefer that it stay as is, with Castiel the only SPN character? I've got plans for a next chapter which includes them, and one that doesn't. So I could go either way. Opinions? If you've got them, I'd love to hear them~ **


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